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Rita Skeeter felt her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
How could three people appear in her living room without a sound? The Anti-Apparition wards hadn't triggered. The Floo hadn't flared. They were simply... present.
Are they here to kill me?
Her survival instinct kicked in. She glanced at Gilderoy Lockhart. He was a Ministry darling, a coward, and a man obsessed with his image. He wouldn't risk a scandal. And the "Witch"? She was a student. A teenager.
No, Rita told herself, forcing her breathing to steady. They aren't here for violence. They are here to complain. I can handle complaints. I can spin this.
Before she could recover her composure, Hermione's voice rang out again, soft and disappointed.
"Ms. Skeeter... regarding what I said yesterday. You actually..."
Rita swallowed hard, her throat clicking. "Actually what?"
"You didn't report the whole thing to me?!" Hermione sighed, shaking her head. "I gave you the scoop of the century. The Transmigration? The Plot Armor? The Meta-Narrative?"
"Ah...?"
Rita's lips twitched. Her mind was a mess.
That's why you're here?!
You're mad because I didn't print your psychotic delusions?!
She forced a tight, pained smile. "Uh... Miss Granger, space is limited in the Sunday edition... editorial constraints, you understand. Such... important content should definitely be saved for a special feature. An in-depth biography, perhaps?"
In her mind, she was screaming. This girl isn't a genius; she belongs in the Janus Thickey Ward!
Hermione seemed oblivious to the perfunctory excuse. She picked up the copy of the Daily Prophet from the coffee table, her fingers brushing the headline.
"Oh? Is that so?"
She pointed to the paragraph speculating about Lockhart's involvement.
"You said there was limited space. Yet, you found room to add things I didn't mention. You claimed Professor Lockhart and I were staging a political coup together."
Rita's heart skipped a beat. She backed away until her legs hit the sofa. "That... that was a reasonable inference! Based on the subtext of your..."
Hermione smiled. It was a gentle smile, the kind a teacher gives a student who finally understands the lesson.
"Ms. Skeeter, don't be nervous. I have good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?"
Rita looked at the three figures. Hermione, relaxed. Lockhart, smiling his dazzling, empty smile. And the dark-haired man, Ethan Hunt, standing as still as a statue, watching her with dead, cold eyes.
"The... good news?" Rita squeaked.
Hermione nodded approvingly.
"The good news is," she said lightly, "that you're right."
Rita blinked. "...?"
Hermione continued, pacing the room. "Congratulations, Ms. Skeeter. Your professional instincts are sharper than I gave you credit for. Your fabrication about Professor Lockhart? Absolutely correct."
"Last time at the Ministry of Magic? We were indeed acting. It was a play. And the part about me colluding with the Dark Lord? That was also true."
Hermione's tone was sincere, conversational.
"I deliberately released the prophecy to provoke those idiots in the Ministry. I needed an excuse to break in. And Professor Lockhart needed a boost in his poll numbers. It was a win-win."
Rita felt her brain buzzing. The room was spinning.
What is she talking about? I guessed right?
No. That's impossible. I made it up! I made it all up!
Seeing Rita's stunned expression, Hermione's smile deepened. She stepped closer.
"See? I'm validating you, Rita. You're a great journalist."
Rita's throat was dry as dust. Her voice trembled.
"Then... what's the bad news?"
Hermione stopped. The air in the room dropped ten degrees. The shadows seemed to stretch toward the center of the rug.
"The bad news is..."
Hermione leaned in, whispering.
"Congratulations. You guessed right."
She turned her head slightly and gestured to the silent man beside her.
"Ethan?"
The young man moved. He didn't step forward. He simply... changed.
The illusion dissolved like smoke in the wind. The sunny, generic features of "Auror Ethan Hunt" melted away. The skin paled. The structure sharpened.
In his place stood a young man of terrifying beauty. High cheekbones, dark hair, and eyes that were not human—eyes that held a chilling, reddish glint of absolute darkness.
Rita's pupils contracted to pinpoints. Her breath stopped.
As a journalist who had covered the darker parts of history, she knew faces. She knew the archives.
She recognized him.
It was a face from fifty years ago. A face from Head Boy records. A face from old wanted posters.
Tom Riddle.
Rita was instantly drenched in cold sweat. Her teeth began to chatter uncontrollably.
The person in front of me...
He's the Young You-Know-Who.
The young man looked at her. A cruel, half-smile curled his lips.
"Let me introduce myself," he said, his voice smooth and cold as a tombstone. "Tom Marvolo Riddle."
He took a step forward.
"But you probably know me by my pen name..."
"Lord Voldemort."
Rita felt her knees give way. She collapsed onto the carpet, gasping for air.
What is he doing here?!
Why is he with Hermione?!
Why is he with Lockhart?!
She looked at Lockhart. The celebrity wizard was still smiling, checking his reflection in a mirror on the wall.
It was a nightmare. A complete, impossible horror story.
Rita finally realized the truth. Hermione wasn't crazy. She wasn't joking.
She really was the boss. She really did control the Dark Lord.
It's all true!
Hermione looked down at Rita's deathly pale face. She smiled with satisfaction.
"Look, Ms. Skeeter," Hermione said softly. "How honest I am with you. I've told you the whole truth. I even brought the exhibits."
Hermione tilted her head, looking at the sobbing woman on the floor.
"But... why do you look so unhappy?"
"This is the scoop of the century. 'Hogwarts Student Enslaves Dark Lord.' It would sell millions."
Rita shuddered violently. She understood the terror hidden behind this "honesty."
This wasn't a scoop. It was a death sentence.
Knowing this secret? Seeing the Dark Lord alive and subjugated? There was no way she was leaving this room.
"No..." Rita shook her head frantically, tears and snot ruining her makeup. She crawled backward. "I didn't hear anything! I don't know anything!"
"Miss Granger... no! Witch! Please! Spare me! I promise I won't write a word! I'll retire! I'll become a beetle forever!"
Hermione's smile faded. Her expression became bored.
She gently raised her wand. The tip pointed directly between Rita's eyes.
"Since you can't accurately convey information," Hermione said coldly, "it seems there's no point in keeping your pen."
Rita stared at the wand tip.
"NO! DON'T!"
Hermione ignored the wailing.
"Crucio."
A flash of angry red light filled the room.
"AAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
An indescribable, excruciating pain swept through every nerve in Rita's body. It felt like her blood had turned to acid, like her bones were being ground to dust, like white-hot needles were piercing her eyes.
She curled up on the ground, convulsing violently. Her screams were inhuman, raw, and terrified.
Lockhart watched with mild interest. Tom Riddle watched with critical approval.
Hermione held the curse. She didn't look angry. She looked like a scientist conducting a calibration test.
After ten seconds that felt like ten years, Hermione lifted her wand.
The screaming stopped, replaced by ragged, wet gasps. Rita lay on the floor, twitching, drool pooling on the expensive carpet. Her eyes were rolled back, wide with trauma.
Hermione crouched down, bringing her face level with the broken journalist.
"Ms. Skeeter."
Hermione patted Rita's cheek gently.
"Now do you understand?"
"The most important things in news reporting are Truthfulness and Accuracy."
Rita stared at her with empty, terrified eyes. She nodded weakly.
At that moment, she truly understood what the word "Witch" meant.